Sinful Saints
by Muffinsweep11
Summary: After flying out of Oz, Oziandra Rain Osqa'ami drops in elsewhere, where her otherworldly skin is the second thing people care about after her magical abilities. Witch hunters are everywhere, and Oziandra must help play her part in the enlightenment of a witch very much like herself, whose foggy past might just lead Oziandra to her future...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: i can wish, but I don't think I'll ever own Wicked.**

**A/N: My first Wicked Fanfic. Please R&R if i should continue on this.**

* * *

The wind whipped past her ear, howling with a fierce cold passion. The clouds above her were brewing and shifting, passing over the sun, plunging the beach into darkness. She bent down and scooped up some sand, rubbing it between her fingers. She didn't allow the sand to escape though, and it turned into brown muddy earth.

Pir Guirewood stood, her eyes staring out into the choppy seas of the Gulf of Honduras. Those same eyes had once been soft and cheerful, but now they were just stone hard, empty, from her years of survival.

She threw her fresh mud ball out into the waters, where it splattered against the unmerciful swirling currents. Somehow the elements just seemed to reflect her emotions, and now she wasn't it a very good mood.

She recalled her younger days, when she was still carefree and innocent. The freedom she had back then, when she didn't consider racism a very big deal, or the fact that she might actually be affected. Her thoughts then were light and happy, unlike her current bitter and dark hatred. How so can one change after many years of hardship!

A witch. That's what the people called her. Different, weird, extra-terrestrial – they could've called her anything, but they chose 'witch'; _wicked_ witch, one without a heart, just an empty shell with only the capacity to store hatred.

Thunder rumbled overhead. She closed her eyes, feeling the anger and bitterness well up inside her. She breathed, the smell of seawater filling her nostrils. The trees behind her sway in the wind, bending their branches and pulling the leaves from their twigs.

Then the Winds spoke. Pir opened her eyes, slightly surprised. The Winds had been silent to her for a while. They spoke only when something special was imminent.

"_Rain approaches," _they whispered. _"Rain comes…"_

_You want rain, is it?_ thought Pir, uncomprehending. _Is this thunder not enough?_

_"Listen for Rain…"_ they continued. _"Listen…"_

So Pir threw back her head and listened. It was true; it was unlike the other times when she threw a temper tantrum, with just the wind and thunder. There was something else – something off. Pir did not like to be confused.

"Tell me, wind!" she shrieked. "Keep nothing from me! Tell me the imminent!"

But the Winds dropped no hints. They just said, "_Wait…"_

And so Pir waited, peering out into the dark grey clouds. For a minute she only saw rolling clouds being tossed by the ruthless winds, then, just as she was getting impatient, she finally began to see something. It was a slight disturbance in the swirling of the clouds above. Like a hiccup, there was a puff of cloud that fluffed out slightly. Pir narrowed her eyes. There was a dark patch there, a shadow moving behind the veil of cloud…

Then it divided, like curtain being drawn apart, and a shape burst through it. From her distance, Pir could not clearly make out the shape, but it appeared to be a girl, with jet-black hair, on a…wait was that a broom?

The girl seemed to ride the wind, letting the turbulence propel her through the air tumble through the air. She never resisted once. She didn't seem to care that the winds were tossing her about like a rag doll, or the fact that there was a storm all around her.

Then there was another disturbance, another shadow that emerged from behind the clouds. A goose, which in contrary to the girl, was flapping his wings rapidly fighting against the strong currents of the wind. The most curious thing about it was the fact that he was carrying an umbrella and a satchel, something even Pir, who was geared for the unexpected survival, never expected. How was that even possible?

The goose seemed to tire, and its wings grew limp and ceased to flap, and it fell towards the earth. The girl, in the midst of enjoying her ride, was taken on by surprise, and tried to steer the broom towards the falling goose, but her reaction was too slow, the goose was hurtling at too fast a rate, there was no way she could get to it in time…

Before she knew it, Pir's hands flew out in front of her. She drew all her energy, concentrating on the falling bird, and focused hard…

The bird stopped midair, just a meter above the churning waters. Power rippled through her muscles, pulled from the core of her soul. It was draining her, tearing her spirit from her body. She couldn't hold on any longer, she had to let go…

Fortunately for the goose – bless that goose, it was one lucky bird – it was splashed conscious just as it hit the water's surface. It began to struggle, lifting itself up into the air once more, and made it to the shore as quickly as its wings could carry it. It waddled towards Pir, who backed away in uneasiness. She drew her hidden knives from her boots for extra precaution.

"You're a weird goose, now, I say," she said, holding out her weapons. "I don't think weird and weird should mix…"

And she was right: the goose was no ordinary goose.

"Thank you, powerful sorceress!" it exclaimed. "Iskinaary, at your service!"

* * *

Pir had encountered many strange happenings in her time in the wild, but none like this. She staggered and gripped the tree behind her for support. A talking goose?

The goose took no notice of her shock. He lifted his head, and cried out to the girl, who was now balancing on the edge of the wind, still getting over the initial shock of what she had just witnessed.

"Miss Oziandra, you must land and thank this wonderful good lady for saving me! Land, for Lurline's sake!"

The girl appeared to observe Pir from a distance for a while, before obliging and soaring down towards the beach.

"I am no wonderful person, goose," Pir said, still trying to pull herself together after all that she had just witnessed. "Nor am I a good one. I'm a wicked witch."

"As was my grandmother," said the girl as she landed, her long black traveling cloak billowing behind her.

As if Pir's day wasn't getting any weirder. At first she thought the talking goose was enough to give her a heart attack, but now, she reconsidered.

Pir hadn't noticed it when the girl was amongst the clouds, perhaps because of the darkness that shrouded her facial features, but now that the girl was less than five meters away...

It couldn't be. It must've been a trick of light.

But no, as the girl continued forwards, it was evident her skin was green. Emerald green.

Pir felt as if the tree behind her was about to snap in her grip.

Oziandra had long foreign black hair, beautiful black eyes, and small red lips, brought out by her sharp lean chin and her high well-rounded cheekbones. She was beautiful in every way, her movement, her smiling; but she was green, and her beauty could not hide that.

"Who…who are you?" asked Pir. Never in her life had she seen such a phenomenon, much less the flying broom.

"I'm a wild traveller from the distant lands, an outcast, a stain on a pristine cloth," answered the girl. Her tone was bitter.

"And I'm a Goose, with the capital G," said Iskinaary, "familiar of this young lady's witch father."

"Well…" said Pir, composing herself. "_I_ have no familiar. I need no familiar, so leave me."

The girl Oziandra was about to turn, but the Goose said, "No, Miss Oziandra, we must return this young lady a favor for saving my life."

"You return it, Iskinaary, my life needed no saving." She turned to go.

"I insist, Miss Oziandra, we must."

Pir folded her arms. "I agree with the green girl, Goose," she said coldly, "I don't usually help people, and in the first place, _I_ was the one who created the storm that brought you down."

"No," said the Goose. "Miss Ozaindra and I have been flying for a year and a half. It is what tired my wings, and we ought to rest," he looked to the green-skinned girl. She did not turn, but just stared out into the horizon. The storm had cleared to reveal a sea of turquoise and blue, with pink and orange clouds streaking the sky; Pir had been in too much of a shock to keep her tantrum going.

"Goose, just leave me," said Pir icily. "I detest company. Please, we have met and I'm sure that I know what I need to know about you two freaks. Now, just return to wherever you have come from and _leave me be._" Now Pir swiveled around to leave.

"In actuality," pressed the Goose, and the girl sighed, just as Pir rolled her eyes in exasperation, "I have not officially introduced you – curse my forgetfulness – to Miss Oziandra Rain Osqa'ami."

Pir froze.

_Rain._

She rounded on the girl, realization dawning upon her. "_You _were the Imminent?"

The girl looked at her askance. "Technically I…am the Eminent Thropp of Munchkinland…if that's what you are referring to…"

"I was expecting you," said Pir shortly.

"Wait, you were?" asked Oziandra, confused in the blur of the moment.

"Yes, I was," confirmed Pir, though she herself was not sure. Was this the girl she's been waiting for? "Come with me."

"Finally! A place to rest!" exclaimed Iskinaary, whom she'd almost forgotten. "My feathers are indeed worn and my eyes have no more tears to be shed from the wind. Lead on wicked witch, where be your castle?"

Pir looked at the Goose, not at all amused. "Your poor sense of humor does not have any effect on me, Goose. If you want to fool around, don't choose my territory to do it. I will not have it, do you hear?" At this point, Oziandra snickered slightly.

"What is it?" Pir demanded, insulted. She hated being laughed at. "I welcome you, and this is your response? How insolent!"

"Forgive me, Sorceress," said the girl, "but Iskinaary did not mean to be humorous. It is just that spoilt Iskinaary is used to the tall turrets and high ceilings of my grandmother's castle Kiamo Ko. However, I see you evidently have humble lodgings, and nonetheless I feel honored that you are welcoming us."

Pir grunted. "You should be."

With that, she led them into the forest, where the buzz of insects, the chirp of birds and the howls of monkeys immediately surrounded them. Several animals poked their heads out from among the leaves of the trees to observe the new green stranger, who blended in so well with her surroundings.

"So," said Iskinaary, who was tagging along behind, hopping over the twigs and leaves carrying his satchel and umbrella, "what's for dinner? I do hope it's floury, some wheat products…I even miss your mother's horrid oatmeal…wow how those days of eating that mush of grub insides from the Tribes of the Vinkus. You had to spend a year learning the language of the Scrow, didn't you, Miss Oziandra?"

"I didn't expect you to follow, Iskinaary," said Oziandra, "I didn't even want you to come."

"Century eggs and foie gras," said Pir suddenly.

"Sorry?" the two travellers asked in unison.

"We are having century eggs and foie gras for dinner," repeated Pir, without emotion.

The Goose picked up his pace and fluttered to her side. "My fair Sorceress, but what are century eggs? Are they eggs left for a century to age? And foie gras…what is that fascinating word?"

"Goose eggs and goose liver," replied Pir shortly.

The Goose came to an abrupt stop. On the outside, Pir's face was stoney, but on the inside, she was grinning, relishing in her evil ways.

"_Goose?"_ he said incredulously, rounding on her. "You are going to kill Geese, and dig out their insides for food?"

"I can assume you are referring to talking geese," said Pir, and the Goose nodded, "but no, I speak of geese – _normal, _non-talking geese. We don't have such – " she surveyed her two guests from head to toe " – _oddities _here, other than me."

"Oh, thank goodness!" said Iskinaary. "Those useless wasters of space are not of my concern. Sad life, those non-communicative beings live. The best thing that happens in their lives is being slaughtered. I'm a Goose, an Animal. I live my life a dignified one, though not saintly, just poking my beak into witches' sinful business – first the Witch's bastard son Liir, now _his _artichoke daughter here. Miss Oziandra isn't my familiar though, considering her complete dogged attitude. Must have been passed down from her grandmother – I heard the Wicked Witch of the West had a nasty case of stubbornness – Liir has a flair for defiance as well. Retrospectively, I do expect he got his reputation from that revolutionary move against his uncle Shell. Oh that godly man, thought he was the only whole child of the unholy Thropp threesome, after the Witch and her martyr sister Nessarose. But turns out, he doesn't have half his mind. I guess that's what power does to you, blinds you, drives you insane…"

"Iskinaary," started Pir, "I'm treating you to dinner, so can you do me a favor?"

"Well, anything for my savior."

"Shut up."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Okay so i continued.**

* * *

They made their way through the dense forest of Belize, swatting mosquitos and bugs from their faces. They trudged, climbed, swam, slide, ran until Iskinaary began to complain his feathers were badly bitten and his stomach was empty and growling. So they took a rest in a small clearing, where Pir dumped a pile of grubs at the Goose to shut him up – again.

The two girls stared for a while as the Goose dug into his tea, Oziandra with an amused expression, Pir with a cold, hard one.

"Don't take too long, bird," warned Pir. "I hate waiting." To Oziandra she whispered, "How do you bear this?"

"I don't," replied Oziandra, and she turned to leave, as so did Pir. They found a narrow path leading to a small hill and set off down it.

"Is he always like this?" asked Pir.

Oziandra pondered over the question. "It must be the traveling, I suppose, that has made him this cranky. He is an old Goose."

"He seems to take his job of escorting you rather seriously," said Pir. "Could that be a reason?"

"He never really liked me," Oziandra answered. "He only escorts me for my father's sake."

They walked a few more feet in silence.

Then Pir looked at her. "Where are you from? You seem from neither here nor there."

Oziandra stared at the ground. "That's because I am. I refuse to harp on my past and origins."

"_Fear_ your past and origin, you mean," said Pir, with a hint of disapproval, "out with it, green girl; fear is only for the weak."

"It is not fear for where I come from," said Oziandra. "It is disgust, shame, hatred for it." She spat out her last few words.

"But you run from it."

The green girl said nothing.

"I bear hatred for this place, as well," confessed Pir. "But I don't run from it." She was beginning to surprise herself – she rarely opened up this much to a stranger. Did this emerald green girl bear something that drew her in?

Oziandra seemed to observe her. "You don't? Then why are you hiding? Why must we cross treacherous rivers, pass through dangerous territories, make an occasional climb up a tree to check for followers, just to get to your _hideout_?"

Suddenly Pir gripped the girl by the shoulders and slammed her against a nearby tree.

"Don't criticize my actions, broccoli, or you're gonna end up in the frying pan." A spark flickered between her fingers.

The captive's face remained set. "You're afraid. That's the difference between you and me. You lie to cover up your emotions."

Pir stared hard into Oziandra's eyes, before she let go of the emerald girl's shoulders and backed away. "I have no emotions, Oziandra, I'm a heartless witch."

"The irony, now. I heard my grandmother claimed to have no soul, and yet it seems to linger in me."

"The green?"

"The sin."

Now it was Pir's turn to go silent.

"Everyone has feelings," said Oziandra. "You have feelings, I know it. You know it, Pir."

There was silence, and it took a few seconds for Pir to notice something odd about her statement.

"I never told you my name."

Oziandra looked puzzled for a moment, as if she hadn't even realized she had said Pir's name. Then she stared at Pir, more puzzled than before.

"Come to think of it, you never did," said Oziandra, "I just don't know how I knew it."

They stared at each other for a while. Pir was now convinced that this was the girl she had been waiting for.

"The Winds," whispered Pir finally. "The Winds spoke to you."

"The Winds?" inquired Oziandra. "Are they apparitions of saints? I do not know many saints, but I do know of Saint Aelphaba of the Waterfall, my grandmother's namesake. Or are they like the Unnamed God?"

"Do saints help witches?"

"Good ones, perhaps," replied Oziandra. "With the exception of Glinda. Oh the crimes, that witch has committed. She even got thrown into Southstairs. But yes, other than her, I do suppose saints do help good witches."

"Then the Winds are not saints, for they have helped me, a wicked witch, through all my deeds and dirty intentions. They are all around. They are just there, like the Goose."

"Whom do we speak of that is like me?" asked Iskinaary suddenly, and both girls started.

"Iskinaary!" scolded Oziandra, "When will you stop trying to make my spirit flee from my body in shock?"

"Until you are as soulless as your grandmother, Miss Oziandra,"

"Very funny, bird," said Pir.

"_B_ird. With a capital B."

"Whatever. Do that again and _you'll_ be soulless."

They started down the path.

"My hid – I mean…_place_ – " she noticed Oziandra raising an eyebrow, "is just another mile down this narrow stream here," said Pir, pointing towards a small stream at the edge of the path. She saw the Goose open his beak, and added, "No complaining or you'll end up as dinner."

They walked down the path in silence. So silent that they could hear the birds chirping in the distance, the slight rustle of leaves in the hot humid weather, all accompanied by the trickling of the small stream. How silent. How peaceful. Pir only wished she were peaceful, inside and out. Deep within her a storm still raged, conflicting opinions still fighting over her mind on Oziandra's words. Did she have feelings? Did she indeed have anything else other than hatred?

"So…" started Iskinaary, feeling the need to break the ice. "What is your place like?"

"It's got walls," said Pir, not in the mood for talking.

"Interesting," said Iskinaary, rather sarcastically. "Does it have a window, or roof?"

"Nope," Pir replied simply.

Iskinaary stared at her in bemusement. "How is that possible?"

"Why don't you shut your feather-hole and see for yourself?"

Iskinaary shut his beak.

They arrived at a spring, from which water was trickling gently down the side of the rock.

Pir turned to her guests. "Do you notice anything?" she asked.

Iskinaary took a sweeping glance at his surroundings. "Trees, bushes, water…ants!" he fluttered his wings and hovered above the ground, where he could steer clear of the ants that scavenged the ground.

Oziandra narrowed her eyes. "A crack. A small one, but big enough for a human to fit through." She pointed at a crack in the stone just over the spring.

"Or a inhumane witch," said Pir, nodding in approval. "Sharp eyes, Oziandra, that's my place."

She hopped over the spring and slipped into the crack, followed shortly by Oziandra, then Iskinaary, whom they had to tug through the hole.

"I told you not to have tea," huffed Pir, who tugged at Iskinaary's left leg.

"Hey! I was starving and – ouch! Don't pull my leg off."

"Good. That way we will have dinner before I even go out to search."

The two girls gave one big pull, and the Goose popped through. He then ruffled his feathers and brushed down his satchel.

Oziandra walked around the room. It was small but cozy, with a fireplace and a bearskin rug lain on the floor, and torches that lit the walls. On a rack hung a stock of rabbit and squirrel, along with a hand made hunting bow, a hunting knife and a sharpened spear.

"Why do you need so many weapons for hunting?" asked Oziandra, rather curious, "Do you not have your magic? Apparently I do not have such a knack as you do, after seeing you perform telekinesis on the beach."

"Anything to do with mind channeling wears me out," said Pir. "Do you ever have that feeling when you feel as if all the energy is being ripped from your body, draining you as fast as a bottle of drink?"

"I've never really tried mind-channeling spells," said Oziandra. "Only physical changing spells like elements or bodies."

"Even so," said Iskinaary, whom they had once again forgotten, "she fell into unconsciousness for seven days."

Pir nodded. "I did try telekinesis once on a rabbit, but I think I fainted after half a minute of trying to lift it. When I came round, witch hunters had surrounded me. Luckily my broadswords were with me. I never tried telekinesis after that, until today, when this clumsy bugger here fell from the sky."

"Like how Dorothy's house fell from the sky and crushed my grandaunt," joked Oziandra.

"Your grandaunt got killed by a –? Oh never mind, just stay put here and I'll go searching for some fresh geese."

With that Pir slipped out the crack and into the breeze of the forest.

* * *

"Iskinaary, my head is still spinning from all that flying, and running around the room isn't helping!"

"Serve you right, Miss Oziandra, nobody asked you to take that piece of shitty broom and fly out of Oz."

"It reeks of my unholy past, Iskinaary, I had to leave."

"It's Tip, isn't it?"

Oziandra said nothing.

"When will you get over that girl, Miss Oziandra?" asked Iskinaary, fluttering towards the green girl. "You yourself said that you've already lost her to the throne."

"Yes, I did," admitted Oziandra half-heartedly. "And now can we speak of something else, and for once try to better my headache?"

"The sorceress then."

"Pir?" Oziandra never really thought much of the girl. She was like a boulder, hard, stubborn, and unable to crack. It was impossible to get through to her, but something inside Oziandra told her that she would find out Pir's past soon.

It was a queer thing, this intuition. It had told her Pir's name, and made her trust Pir, and now it seemed to be pushing her to discover Pir's past for unknown reasons. But Oziandra didn't like sticking her little green nose into anything.

Yet, there was something about Pir that made Oziandra feel slightly uncomfortable about, like an itch she could not scratch. It made her feel like it was not the first time she was meeting Pir, like she had seen her before. Was it the clothes; the well-worn knee-length dress, with tears and shreds in the embroidered skirts? Was it the fighting skills, the way she handled her knives with cat-like agility? Oziandra had encountered much sword fighting in the cold wartime of Oz, but never has she seen such skill in such dense surroundings. No, it was something else. But what?

She had to get to the bottom of this. She had to scratch that itch.

And the only way to do that was to find out Pir's past.

* * *

Pir returned an hour later, carrying three geese and sack full of geese eggs and liver.

"Not my typical choice, to go to a farm and steal with the risk of getting chased down by dogs, but if it pisses Iskinaary, it's worth it."

"For Lurline's sake then, I shall not be pissed."

"And now _I'm_ pissed," said Pir, adding a tone of anger to her voice. "And you don't want to see me when I'm pissed."

"Fine I'm pissed," said the Goose, obliging.

"So," began Oziandra, as Pir started up the fire, "Is your name really Pir?"

"It's short for Pirpetusia," replied Pir, surprising herself. How was she revealing so much about herself?

"And you're a witch."

Pir paused in her actions. There it was again, the sudden urge to answer all the green girl's questions. What was it? She never answered questions.

A sudden realization struck her hard. The Winds. This girl was the one…the Imminent, wasn't she?

"Sit down – not you Goose," said Pir, gesturing to a spot across her. "I think we both know the Winds have chosen you, to be my guide to my future."

"You're saying I'm in charge of _your _future?" repeated Rain incredulously.

"Yes, or at least that was how I interpreted it."

Oziandra was silent for a while. She looked up at Pir, eyes locking for a moment.

"I shall take up this important role given by the Winds then," she said finally. "But you will need to open up."

Pir looked at her quizzically. "Whatever for?"

"In order to discern your future," said Oziandra, her tone taking a serious turn. "I must know your past, is that not it?"

"So…so I tell you my entire life story, no matter how boring it is?"

"You aren't saying a witch with magical abilities of yours has a boring life, are you?" asked Oziandra, her tone lighthearted. Pir merely frowned at the green girl. "Of course, i do suppose that life can sometimes be a bore," Oziandra added quickly, "but I do love stories. So let's start right from the beginning, shall we?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here's where the magic starts...**

* * *

Pir's life had always been forwards: Moving forwards, being forward, straightforward. Never has she taken the time to harp on the past, but now she did, and it all came flooding back at her, like a meteorite ripping through the sky, hurtling towards her.

* * *

Her earliest and oldest memories were faint. There was a meadow – yes, a meadow for sure in her younger days, but she could no longer remember the names of the flowers that bloomed there, nor the soft wind that brushed against her cheeks. But she indeed remembered playing in it, running through the sea of flowers, letting her hands brush against the petals. A voice sang in the wind, like little bells in the air.

Then it was gone.

In the distance another voice called out. This one was calling her to come back.

She ignored the voice, she just ran on, searching for the beautiful voice that she had heard.

"Pirpet! My pet, please stop!" called the voice. "Nana has not the legs for this!"

Pir stopped. In front of her toddler eyes, was the dead body of an oriole, lying limp on the soft, wet soil. It was bent in such a graceful position, it's neck extended, it's wings folded neatly by its side. Its voice, once beautiful, had been robbed from the world.

Nana came to her side. She gasped upon seeing the body, to which Pir had had no reaction.

Nana swiped her hands over Pir's eyes. "No child of your age should've seen such a sight, my Pirpet, now come, we must return to the village before the snow beats us to it." She led Pir away from the dead bird, took her by the hand firmly and led her away from the meadow – to Fellshire.

Yes, that was its name. Fellshire, a small, remote, rural village just at the edge of British Columbia, her birthplace.

She was carried by Nana all the way to the cottage, in where Nana set her down by the fireplace. Pir stared into the warm orange flames, which cast dancing shadows across the soft rug in front of her.

Nana settled herself into the armchair. She rocked back and forth, humming tunes of her young days, thinking of the times when she was as lively as Pir, who had begun to crawl around. Then Pir sat back down again, and stared up at her nanny.

"Nana, why did the birdie stop singing?" she asked, curious. Nana opened her eyes and stared lovingly at her.

"It was tired, my dear; it fell asleep."

"But it didn't wake up. It wasn't moving."

"It will eventually. You'll be able to hear it then."

"Just like I'll be able to see Mama and Papa one day?"

Nana paused.

"My dear Pirpet," she said, and it was evident in her voice that she had said this many times before, "They are busy – away – but they'll come back. I promise you, Pirpetusia," she bent down and lifted Pir from the floor and onto her lap, "they'll come back," she assured, "they will."

Pir snuggled in against Nana, feeling the warmth between the woman's breasts. There she heard the steady beating of her heart, like a drum that went on for eternity.

* * *

And so the next day she recalled going back to the meadow, alone. It was a great feat, for a child so young to sneak out without her nana, and Pir was proud of it. Nana, in her absent-mindedness, had left the door unlocked while she headed to the market, and of course Pir, in her curiosity, wanted to hear the singing voice of the bird again, and slipped out the door.

She ran out through the stone archway that marked the entrance of Fellshire. Into the forest she went, her hair whipping behind her, as the greenery zipped past. She felt so full of energy, so…alive.

She entered the meadow, and once again she set out to look for the oriole. She searched, but the endless field of flowers would give her no hint to where it lay. So she stopped, and listened. The air was still, the silence tranquil. The only sound was the swaying of the flowers as they danced in the wind, just like a chorus line.

Pir began to notice something off. Initially, she couldn't place her finger on it, but she knew there was something off about the scene in front of her. Then she saw it.

The ants on the ground; they were so small, and her mind was young, but it was obvious that they were all travelling in the same direction. She had seen many ants before, all over Nana's walls or in the garden, but half had been travelling in the different direction. Bemused, she followed the trail of ants, hopping over the flowers and whisking past their petals. And she was taken on by surprise, for the ants lead her to the one place she had been looking for – the death place of the oriole. There it still lay, still sleeping, still unmoving.

Pir opened her satchel and took out a small cardboard box with cotton stuffing inside. She picked up the bird.

"I'll take care of you," she whispered. "I'll make sure you wake up. I want to hear you sing again."

* * *

Her second earliest memory was not very pleasant. It was something she'd tried to forget, but it was like a thorn irremovable.

"It's time for you to go to school, Pirpet."

"I don't want to. Can't you just teach me? Like you do everyday?"

"I teach because I didn't have the money to send you to kindergarten, Pir," Nana murmured. "Now you must socialize; get to know someone of your age."

"But I don't want to got to school!"

Nana ignored her protests, slung a bag over her shoulders and shoved her out of the door.

"You will go to school, or you don't come back in!" she slammed the door.

Smart was her Nana, for it was winter now in Fellshire, and the winds bit unmercifully at her already cold and frozen cheeks.

"Nana!" she screamed, banging at the door with her numb red fingers. "I don't want to go to school! _Nana!"_

"Get your ass to school or your not getting back in this filthy place!"

"But I'm cold!"

There was no reply from her Nana. So she sat out on the doorstep, shivering like a homeless Chihuahua in nothing but a simple bedgown and a pair of thin stockings.

It seemed for eternity, as she watched horse carriages roll by through her tear-filled eyes. She was so lonely. Another shiver rippled through her body, her muscles tensing and a gasp escaping her soon-blue lips.

A carriage stopped in front of her. Booted feet stepped out, and strode across the snow to Nana's doorstep.

There was a knock. "Ma'am," came a low, stern voice, "are you aware of the little girl out on your front door?"

"I'm very well aware!" answered Nana's irritated voice. "Now if you'll be a gentleman, get her ass off the snow and to school!"

Fatigue overwhelmed Pir. She couldn't even lift her head to look as strong arms wrapped around her freezing body and place her into the warmth of the carriage. There was a gentle bare smaller hand that stroked her cold shoulders.

And that was the last thing she remembered before the darkness.

* * *

There was softness beneath her, into which her body sank. A blanket was draped over her, and another gasp of air left her body with a shiver, warmth rippling through her body.

"Is she alright, Daddy?" she heard a voice of a boy, who seemed no older than her.

"Yes, my lad," replied a man. "She will wake up soon."

"Why was she out in the cold?"

"Her mother merely let her out to play," he answered.

Pir was skeptical at the idea. Nana let her out to play? More like to let her suffer of the cold. There was no way she was going to forgive Nana anytime soon.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. A deep orange light hit her face, bathing her cheeks in warmth and comfort.

She was in a large, spacious room with a high ceiling and a giant crystal chandelier hanging from it, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves attached with ladders, high classed tables and dressing wardrobes with posh couches and armchairs. It seemed all…alien, compared to her Nana's simple but cozy cottage.

"Ah, my dear," said the man, "I see you're awake."

Pir made no response.

The boy ran in front of her and knelt down, forcing her eyes to become level with his, so that her bright blue eyes stared into his soft brown ones.

"Hi."

There was still no response from Pir.

"What's your name?"

Pir tried to flip over onto her other side, but her limbs were stiff and sore, having yet to defrost. The boy smiled cheerfully, undeterred by her ignorance.

"Never mind then," he said, "My name's –

Pir gasped. Oziandra seemed to flinch forward slightly.

"No," Pir said, stopping her, "No, I'm okay."

Oziandra wasn't convinced. "You don't need to do this."

"It was what I was instructed to do," said Pir, "by the Winds. They fated we be together."

"Together as in…" Oziandra was hesitant. Did that mean she would have to give up – no, she'd already done that, and so what was she to fear?

"We each are the deciding factors of each other's futures," said Pir. "Therefore, soon you will have to reveal your mysterious past as well, Oziandra Rain Osqa'ami."

"I will," promised Oziandra, though after slight hesitation.

"Sure, all you witches making these wonderful promises…" said Iskinaary sardonically, whom Pir had once again easily forgotten. "Liir never made any promises. I doubt he would've been able to keep them anyway…if so I would be a free bird soaring the skies by now."

"Shut up." This time the two witches spoke as one.

"This boy…" Oziandra continued. "He's a painful memory, isn't he?"

Pir said nothing, and lowered her gaze.

"If it helps," said Oziandra, "You can just name him something else."

"I would prefer to name him Son-of-a-Bitch any time, but calling names is pathetic, and I shall go by his real name. His name" she took a deep breath, "was Oliver Sanders, son of Mayor Fredrick Sanders."

* * *

When she first met Oliver he struck her as a rather charming boy. With the best manners of a Mayor's son and the smart looks with his checkered vest, he looked like a Mr Perfect in training.

Yet when she went to school the next day – Nana had finally persuaded her, and later the milkman was rather amused at her constant skipping around the house – only then did she realize Oliver was not much of a celebrity in school. He nearly always sulked in the corners and kept his head low, as if he didn't want to be seen at all. She was about to confront him when she was dragged to the principal's office.

Pir had long forgotten the Principal's name, but his shape and attitude wasn't as easily forgettable. She remembered his rotund figure, his round spectacles forced into his pudgy nose. She remembered the pipe that protruded from his fat comical lips, and the beady eyes that were constantly on the newspaper he was reading.

"Pirpetusia McGuire. Interesting name," said the Principal, not taking his eyes of his newspapers. "Where are you from? Are you local?"

Pir said nothing.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

"I don't have any."

"But I see you have a guardian, Miss Gemma McGuire."

"Nana doesn't care about me."

"Oh I'm sure she does," said the Principal dismissively. "Let's see, you've been homeschooled for the past three years?"

"Would've been four," said Pir grumpily.

"I'm truly hoping that as you embark on this education your attitude will improve, Miss Pirpetusia," said the Principal. "You are under the class Grade 1E with the first period being mathematics."

* * *

Pir hated nearly every teacher she saw. She didn't like the mathematics teacher, who just droned on about geometry the entire lesson. She detested the history teacher, who did nothing but sit on the teacher's table and go on about USA's founding fathers. She wasn't really in favor with the Language teacher, who freaked her out by smiling with every word said.

But there was one teacher who stuck in her mind, the one teacher whose first lesson she carried throughout her years. He was her art teacher, an expatriate teacher from Kansas.

As usual, Pir had been slumped in her chair, her head lain on her desk, her art sketchpad propped in front of her to avoid being caught sleeping. Like the rest of her previous classes, she expected this one to be no more interesting.

She heard something being placed on the table. A clink of glass, as a vase was settled on the wood of the table.

"Class, what do you see?"

From under her drooping lids, she saw the boy next to her lean forward slightly.

"It's so ugly."

Her ears perked up, the comment arousing her childlike curiosity. She sat up, peering over the top of her sketchpad.

It was a sad, sorrowful sight. The petals of the poor flower were drooping, its leaves withered and brown, the stalk bent, like an old man with numbered days. Nothing could save it; that was certain.

"Yes," said the teacher. "It is ugly, but long ago it was pretty, flourishing with blooming petals and a healthy stalk, until winter took its toll. Now, I want you to imagine it when it was like that, and draw it."

Pir looked at the flower. In her mind's eye, a lush red began to blossom across the petals, which now prospered with life. The leaves perked up and the stem straightened, turning into a deep shade of green.

All around her, her fellow classmates had begun to draw. In many the petals were colored, yes, but its petals were still wilted, the children unable to visualize the life that flower had once possessed. But it just seemed so real to Pir, her imagination indistinguishable from her reality. She bent over, and began to sketch the flower that wasn't there, and color the colors at had long been ridden of the flower.

Her drawing was simple, but it made the art teacher pause and observe it for a moment.

"Pirpetusia, I'd like to see you after class."

So when all of her classmates had filed out of the room, their childish yells and screams of joy echoing throughout the hallway outside, Pir stayed, and watched curiously as the teacher stared out of the window, out into the cold, winter gloom. The snowflakes smacked against the glass, accompanied by the winter winds outside.

"How'd you do it, Pirpetusia?" he asked, without turning to look at her. "How'd you see the flower? You achieved what I least expected of a six-year old – not to draw what is there, but to draw what is not there."

Pir didn't answer. She walked over to the dead flower, it's drooping petals making the flower seem as if it's sleeping.

It's sleeping…

Maybe she could try and wake it up…

Oh look, it's waking up…

"Holy McKinley."

Pir looked up at the teacher, who now faced her, his eyes widened as large as saucers, face pale as the snow that fell. Then she looked down again at her hands, and realized she now held the flower, but it was blossoming and healthy again, the petals as red and the leaves as green as she had imagined them to be.

The teacher strode over and knelt down in front of her. He took the rose from her hands and observed it in his own, stroking the delicate petals that he had thought to be long dead. Then he looked up into her eyes, his filled with graveness and slight fear.

"Miss Pirpetusia, I must say you've special talent," he said, his tone laced with grim seriousness. "But you must not show it."

"Why?"

The teacher lowered his gaze, and planted the flower back into Pir's hands. He wrapped his fingers around hers, enclosing the rose.

"It's a secret, Pirpetusia.

"_Our _secret."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I revised the previous chapter so if you have no idea what's going on in this one, you probably need to re-read Chapter 3 (11/09/13) Ignore this if you've read the revised version and please R&R :)**

* * *

"Our secret," Pir laughed bitterly as she repeated the words. "Secrets lead to weakness, and weakness leads to downfall."

"That is why you're letting it all out now?" inquired Oziandra. "Before they can be your ruin?"

"These are not secrets. They are merely facts," replied Pir flatly.

"They're facts that torment your life, Pir," countered Oziandra. "They can lead you to your downfall too. You have to accept that."

Pir was silenced by her words. It was true. Everything in her life had been torment.

"In that case," she said finally. "I suppose I ought to let it all out, shouldn't I?"

* * *

She remembered her new feat in school had distracted her from her previous goal to confront Oliver. She hitched up her skirts, racing down the lanes to her Nana's house at the border of Fellshire, undaunted by the biting winds and the stinging snow that beat against her frozen cheeks. She didn't care about the carriage horses that reared or skidded to prevent crashing into her, or the curses that were sent at her for nearly running into the people.

She remembered crashing into the house, throwing down her bag, and her Nana's shock at her sudden outburst of excitement that came with a scolding to behave like a proper girl. She remembered darting into her room, locking the door, and prying up the floorboard under which she had kept the oriole from Nana's hawk eyes.

It still lay there in the box, in the same position. She picked it up in her hands, staring into it.

_If I could wake the rose_, she thought to herself, _then maybe I could wake the birdie_. She visualized the oriole spreading its wings once more, stretching out its legs. She visualized it perching upon her hand, ruffling its feathers.

And most of all, she visualized it singing.

A tinge of disappointment stung her when there was no immediate effect, then there was a twitch from the bird, so small, but it was enough to set off the rapid palpitations in Pir's heart. She watched, her lips pulling back into a smile, as the bird's wings began to flutter.

Then its whole body was convulsing. Its eyes opened, it's neck moving and twisting once again. Its wings shot out, and they began to twitch furiously. The bird leapt off her hand, but its flapping wings were uncoordinated, and it plunged to the floor. Pir nearly lunged after it, but then it lifted up, perching upon her windowsill. For a while it stared at her, its body still twitching slightly. In its eyes, Pir thought she saw a darkness, a hatred.

Then it was gone, and the bird opened its beak, letting out one beautiful note, one too ethereal as to belong to the world of the living. Yet it hung in the air, and the mystical, otherworldly voice still sounded in her head, even as the owner took off into the wintery night.

* * *

Pir laughed darkly as she remembered how her Nana had pounded on her door furiously after hearing her child dancing around the room and screaming in joy.

"It was nothing to be happy about, however," Pir said. "It was black magic, reviving the dead. At such an immature age, I was unaware of such brutal cruel magic. I still believed in unicorns and fairies, the stereotype of 'magic'." Pir took a shaky breath. "But my art teacher, Mr Gale – yes now I remember, his name was Mr Jonathan Gale – " Oziandra flinched slightly, but Pir didn't seem to notice. " – knew better. When I approached him the next day about my achievement, and he punished me severely, making my write lines. He knew the graveness of the situation, unlike me, and all I did was detest him for punishing me. I held that detestation for years, being a childish girl disappointed when she didn't get her wanted reaction."

"Can you just get to your point?" asked Iskinaary, rather impatiently. "You keep on going on about this 'graveness', and still I see no wrong done by using magic."

"You know I'm not talking to you in the first place, bird."

"Bird, for the love of Lurline's knickers, _B_ird!"

* * *

"Why are you so upset?"

Pir turned, and came face to face with a very bundled up Oliver.

"It's a secret." She said, pressing a finger against her frowning lips.

"Oh," he said, slightly disappointed. "I can't see it?"

Pir shook her head. "Only Mr Gale and I can see it."

"Okay," said Oliver, acknowledging her determination to keep that secret.

Just standing there, out in the cold, looking at Oliver's rosy red cheeks and his now snow covered hair, made Pir forget that she was helplessly underdressed and shivering. He made her feel comfortable. Warm.

Pir reached into her jacket. "I can't tell you, but I can give you this." Into his hands she placed the rose.

Oliver stared at the rose, his eyes widening at the fact that there was a lush red rose, in a freezing cold winter. But he knew it was not his duty to press on and ask how she'd done it. He tucked it into his jacket, and smiled at Pir

Pir looked around. "There's no carriage to pick you back home?"

Oliver glanced at the rough cobblestoned streets, and shook his head. "My father wants me to walk home. He wants me to be like other kids."

"Like me."

"Yes."

"But why do you hide from other kids then?" Pir asked, finally managing to accomplish what she had so long ago wanted to.

"Um…" Oliver looked to the ground, and developed a sudden interest in the snow beneath him. "You won't get it."

Here Pir hesitated. This was what she'd wanted to know for so long, yet now, after earning his respect for her secret, she wasn't too keen to urge him to spill the beans.

"Okay," said Pir simply, now understanding the disappointment Oliver had just felt.

For a minute they stood there, staring into each other's eyes, just as they'd done when they first met, letting the snowflakes fall upon their heads and shoulders.

"Well," said Pir after a while. "I should get home. Nana will be worried about me."

"Okay then," Oliver said. "I'll see you around when school break ends. Goodbye, Tusia."

Tusia. Now _that_ was new.

New as the freshly fallen snow, yes, but not as new as the friendship that blossomed between them.

* * *

Her following school days were not as vivid, the only changes over the years being the increasing pile of homework, her bugging the smart Oliver for more help and school breaks being the most boring, for she could do nothing but lie in her old, worn out bed and dream of fantasies impossible of becoming reality. What was her most vivid memory was what changed her life forever.

The people of Fellshire called it the Fating, a day when each child of nine years was to be told their destinies, be it good or bad. The children were to be dressed up in their Sunday clothes, and so, when Pir went, she saw girls dressed up in lovely silk frocks, wearing white-laced gloves and elaborate bonnets adorned with flowers and ribbons. She saw boys clad in smart sailor suits and knickerbockers. And Pir? She came in nothing but a tea gown, and thus she could not help but to stand out in her plainness as she stood at the edge of the lake waiting.

It was not at all what she expected, the Lake House. Of course, she expected it to be on a lake, but she never expected a shabby old straw-roofed house, built on a stilts in the middle of the lake.

It had been barely six in the morn when her Nana shook her awake and dressed her up, pulling especially hard on the strings of her corset to wake her from her morning daze. Stockings had been pulled up her legs and her feet forced into formal black leather buckled shoes. She hated it when Nana dressed her up like this. It made her feel restricted, robbed of her freedom.

Nana drew out her pocket watch just as it stuck seven, and there suddenly seemed to be a shadow of a ripple bursting out from the house to the banks of the lake. Then there was a tremor beneath her feet, and a wave of gasps and shouts drew her attention to the Lake House.

It was nothing but a darkness at first, something shifting beneath the murky waters. Then it grew, and took shape of a wooden bridge, rising up to take its position as a walkway to the shack.

The children were slightly afraid, wondering at this act of real magic. Pir looked on with wonder as well, but more of an amazed excited wonder.

_There's someone like me_, she thought,_ someone who can do real magic as well._

For a moment no child dared to set foot on the bridge, for fear of their precious, expensive shoes, and parents dared not force them. But Nana now whispered in Pir's ears.

"We must go, my dear Pirpet," said Nana. "Fear not of your shoes being wet or dirtied, for they are of the cheapest price and can easily replaced. Come, we only have this one day to determine your destiny, let us not waste it on scorning the rich and the spoilt."

Pir nodded, and walked over to the edge of the bridge.

"And my Pirpet?" Nana gripped her shoulders, bending down slightly to have her face leveled with Pir's. "Do not be discouraged may your fate be bad, do not be afraid. I will stay with you."

_I will stay with you. _Those words brought Pir back to the day Nana had left her out in the cold.

"I am not afraid," whispered Pir, her tone set and voice hard. "I never was."

Nana smiled at her, a shadow of pride in those old, brown eyes. "Then let you never be, Pirpetusia."

* * *

It was only when Pir entered the shack did she see that the house was actually made of mangrove trees, their bending and twisting branches and trunks clustering together to form the walls and the floors, and the thick layers of leaves providing a roof for the shack. It was a wonder, yet there seemed to be an unnatural air about how perfect the shack had formed, an aura of magic forcing the branches in their different positions.

However, it was not on this magical phenomenon that Pir's mind had been fixed on, rather on the mystery of the phenomenon, the Teller.

Pir remembered little about what she'd been told of the Teller, but she knew that the Teller had three Faces, or in other words, three different personalities to judge from three different perspectives. Myth spoke of her as the Woman of Three Faces, She Who Watches All Natures. It was told that the Teller had been cooped up in this shack for nearly a century, and with no company, she made her own. She split herself up, into the three generations, each with very different insights. There was a child, nothing but playful and immature. Then there was a grown, kind lady, who was wise but all the more vague. And there was an old woman, knowledgeable but lacking of memory. It was rumored that those who met the child fell out of luck, those who met the woman had balanced luck, and those who met the elder fell into luck.

Pir had never cared for these rumors, though most of them had been proven true over the years.

And now, standing in the shack, she found herself slightly wondering of whom she will meet.

"You came to play."

Pir turned, and at the sound of the voice she knew who'd she'd gotten as the Teller before she saw those big round eyes staring at her from within the shadows of the shack.

The Child, She Who Watches All Youth And Innocence.

All the more Pir was unwilling to show her despondency, and lifted her chin, arranging her expression to be a stern cold stare.

"I came not to play," she said. "I came for my Fating."

"Oh, it's today?" the Child stepped forwards, into the rays of the sunlight that shone through the gaps in the leaves. PIr now saw that the girl seemed to be no more than seven, with child fats still evident on her chubby cheeks. "I forgot. Well then, since I have already prepared games, you will play with me."

"I came here for my Fating." Pir refused to give in to this Child.

"But I want to play."

"My Fating first."

"Fine," the Child twirled around and sat with crossed legs. Her eyes began to twitch and her pupils contracted. "You'll live a happy time in Fellshire, and bring Fellshire its name. Can we play now?"

"What do you mean, bring Fellshire its name?" pressed Pir.

"I want to play!" the Child's voice rose into a whine. "Why fret over this Fating furor anyways? It's so boring!"

Pir ignored the Child's complaints, and prepared to leave. Yet even as she stared out into that wooden bridge, her mind was still fixed on the telling just given to her. There was something off about it. This girl, She From Whom One Receives Ill luck, had told her of good happenings, not misfortunes and letdowns. How then, does the ill luck fall upon those who meet her?

Then it struck her. It was because the Child gave good news, did those who meet her became complacent of living a blessed life, unaware of the bad happenings that are imminent. It was because they were given good luck, did they fall into ill luck.

Pir was determined not to fall for the Child's mischievous tricks. She would have to find another way around.

_I came here for a full Fating,_ she thought, _and I'm not leaving without one_.

She turned back to the Child. "I'll play with you."

The Child looked up at her. "You will?"

"Yes I will," confirmed Pir, now putting on a gentler front. In her mind, ideas were racing through, searching desperately for any loopholes.

Then she found one.

"Let me decide which game to play," Pir said, praying her plan would work.

The Child pouted, but otherwise obliged.

"Okay, we will make our own story together," Pir started. "I begin, you continue."

"That game makes me sleep!" whined the Child. "Can we play something else?"

"You should thank me for even playing with you!" snapped Pir. She realized her mistake just as soon as the Child's lips began to tremble. Quickly she knelt down next to the girl and hastily added in a softer tone, "Look, we'll play my game first, and then we can play yours, alright?"

The Child smiled. "Alright."

"So, I'll begin." Pir took a deep breath. "One day – "

"No!" interrupted the Child. "You must start with 'Once Upon a time'! It's the rules!"

"Since when were there rules?" demanded Pir, once again easily losing her temper. "My game, my rules."

This time tears began to gather in the Child's eyes.

"Ok, fine, _whatever_!" cried Pir, throwing up her arms in exasperation. "Once upon a time, in a small village, there lived an ordinary girl. Her name was Pir – "

"Pir's not a nice name!" said the Child, once again interrupting. "Make her Aeryn!"

Pir took another deep breath, this time to calm her boiling insides. "Her name was _Aeryn. _One day, Aeryn found out she could do magic."

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the Child, "I know this one! Can I continue?" Pir obliged, excitement bubbling in her as she saw the Child's eyes begin to twitch once more, just as she'd done when she told the other prophecy minutes ago.

"She could control the elements, like fire, or wind, or water! She was very powerful, but no one knew of her magic. No one knew that she could fly, or walk on water! The only other person who knew was her teacher, and she only told one friend."

All of a sudden the Child began to convulse, and Pir jerked upon her feet and away from the girl. Pir watched as the Child's green cat-like pupils contracted and rolled to the back of her head.

"_Then they found her. They found her." _The sudden change in the Child's voice sent a shiver down Pir's spine. _"They're coming for her."_

Suddenly the Child dove into Pir's arms, her eyes now darting frantically around the room, as if danger were impending. "_No, no, stay away from me!" _her voice was now younger, but it was as if she was voicing a dialogue. _"I didn't do anything wrong! No, no don't lock the doors! Please, someone, anyone! Let me in!"_

The terror in the Child's voice was now growing on Pir, but she refused to let down her brave front.

"_No! You don't understand! I just wanted – "_

The Child stopped shaking. She stepped back and stared at Pir.

"She just wanted…?" pressed Pir, eager to get as much information as possible.

The Child made no movement. Her eyes had returned to their normal state, but they seemed empty, just green orbs filled with endless nothingness.

"Who was after her?" asked Pir, trying again.

The Child just stared.

Cautiously, Pir took a step forwards.

Just as her foot touched the floor, the Child began to dissipate. Literally. Her eyes and mouth began to retch dust, her whole body turning to dust. Pir could do nothing but stare in shock as the girl before her was reduced to a pile of dust.

Then a breeze picked up, and the remains of the Child rode with it, swirling up through the rustling leaves and into the bright morning sky that spring had brought with it.


End file.
